


The River Styx

by mrapollo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ancient Egypt, Bloodplay, Cat!Charles, Dubious Consent, God!Charles, Graphic Animal Death, M/M, Pharaoh!Erik, Powertrippin'!Erik, Rituals, graphic gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrapollo/pseuds/mrapollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is crowned Pharaoh. Even in a time of crisis, he has no excuse for binding a god to his will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bastet's Son!Charles inspired by [this](http://tiny.cc/pzy9iw) wonderful art (you'll need a Pixiv account to see it).

A great river ran through miles of desolate death. The enormous, thrashing blue thrived, unchecked and immortal, spilling over to flood the sands for miles. It drenched the land in life every year, in the same months, before retreating, leaving in its wake a bounty of healthy crops.

For hundreds of years, the desert’s people had relished in the months of harvest. No one had a second to spare, a moment without work. The poor labored on the river, breaking their backs of their own will or another’s. Crops were nourished, loved, and collected by the dozen, leaving seeds of new growth in their wake for the final harvest of the season. 

The craftsmen locked themselves in their shops, only seeing the blazing desert sun under the thin cloth canopies of the arid markets. Scribes kept to their studies, blackening their fingers in the ink of language, while the priests took on the work of the divine. Every god had to be appeased during harvest season. Even the smallest, most insignificant god required reparations by its people. Gossip traveled quickly in the divine sphere and a single mistake in the honoring of a household god could spark the lioness of war into conquest. 

The river gave everyone meaning, a place in society. It was the same tale every year, told by the river to be spun by the scribes, and it would be the same forever.

\---

It was harvest season again, and this year’s was special. This year heralded the reign of a new Pharaoh, crowned the sixth day of harvest season. 

The new Pharaoh was a reflection of the gods, perfection in mortal form. Gold wrapped his ankles, wrists, and neck in thick cuffs and necklaces, shining with divine blessings. His body was bare, save for a finely woven kilt which reached the tops of his knees, the golden dressings, and ornate sandals. He was thin, but powerfully built, with a small waist and hidden muscle in his tanned limbs. His jawline and nose spoke of strong lineage, both were hard and angled, and his blue-green eyes revealed no emotion. 

Tens of thousands had crowded the palace courtyard, braving the sun in their stuffy linens, to watch the Pharaoh bear the crown. Their cries echoed and the mass of people seethed like water as their Pharaoh was crowned.

With a thousand pairs of eyes on him, Erik remained stoic. He did not meet the gaze of his people, but stared on, beyond the cool pools of his palace, the dry, square homes, and the painted temples. 

As Erik looked out over the desert, he kept rigid in fear. The people were cheering, chanting in gleeful exclamations of trust and hope to a deaf despot and Erik stared on, eyes locked on the river. A dozen pharaohs had been crowned in the harvest season. The year was not special because of him. 

Erik knew why the year was special as he stared at the river that had dried up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bastet's Son!Charles inspired by [this](http://tiny.cc/pzy9iw) wonderful art (you'll need a Pixiv account to see it).
> 
> This is the only chapter that will feature GRAPHIC ANIMAL DEATH and the majority of the GORE is in this chapter, so warning for those!

The day after his crowning, Erik called upon his many ranks of messengers. They were arranged in rows, obedient and boiling in the hot sun of the open courtyard, their backs to a lush, inviting pool of crystalline water. 

Erik stood before them, blanketed by the cool shade of an overhang. He paraded back and forth, like a general addressing troops, stepping into the sun in brief, pointed moments to blind the men with the hot reflections of his crown. 

Every messenger had tilted his head or shifted a little to the side at least once during the briefing, for a glimpse of the cool waters at their backs. Erik made sure to catch the eyes of each man who licked chapped lips, searching for moisture to dampen a dusty throat. After each event of fleeting contact, Erik shot a gaze to the pool. The message was clear; a reward not in gold, but in precious water.

“Go to every temple in the desert,” he started, staring down a messenger from the middle of the first row, “and bring me a scribe. I want the main scribes and their records brought to the palace.”

When the messengers remained still, fearful to move and thinking there was more to the briefing, Erik scowled.

“You have a seven days.”

The men made their leaves as respectfully and quickly as humanly possible, with lasting glances at the pool.

“You. Come here,” Erik commanded. The more skittish among the messengers continued their speedy retreat through the open doorway of the courtyard, not wanting the stress of being before the Pharaoh for a second longer. Four men turned around, stopping, curious as to who Erik was speaking to.

Erik nodded to the man on the far right, dismissing the other three and calling forth the one he chose.

The man before him was young. Spry and blonde, he didn’t tremble before Erik as the others did. He stood at attention, rigid but without fear, and waited for his Pharaoh’s orders.

Erik leaned in close, pulling the younger man close to his chest and dipping his head to confide in him a more private mission.

“Go to Bubastis. Alone. Bring me the scribe, the records,” Erik took the youth’s wrist, squeezing it till his hand opened, “ and a cat, blessed by the priest.” He stepped back, gave the man a look, and turned his back to him, returning to the throne room.

The messenger was alone in the courtyard, in awe of the invaluable gem rested on his palm. 

\---

It was three weeks into harvest season.

A line of men ran through the pillars of the throne room, snaking through the high-ceilinged halls and ending at a large, open-air entrance. The line teetered and swayed at its head in hysterical apprehension, nerves running along it like electric shocks through a Nile catfish. A scribe ascended the wide stairs to the throne, bowing in grace to the new god-king and presenting him with a scroll. He stood rigid as the Pharaoh took the roll of papyrus in a firm grip, flicking the knotted tassle off and scanning thoroughly through the text. His face was stern, the only movement the quick reading of his eyes and a twitch of his lip, in displeasure, as he found nothing of importance. He snapped the scroll shut, controlled choler growing, and the sound resonated against the vividly painted columns of the palace. The scribe jumped at the noise, mimicking the dozen that had come before him.

Erik extended his arm, scroll in hand, and the scribe reached forward to take the parchment, keeping as much distance as possible. He took the scroll and began to pull away, to retreat back to his temple as quickly as the sands would allow, but the scroll did not give. Erik kept his grip tight around it until the scribe looked up to match eyes with his Pharaoh. He held him in a uniquely blue-green gaze, boring into the scribe. 

This was his test. If the scribe had slathered lies on the page, miscounting the number of offerings made to his temple’s god purposefully, Erik would know by how the man before him faltered. He stared, face blank and eyes blazing, as the scribe held his breath and stared back, not breaking the contact. It was twenty seconds before Erik let the man leave, setting his eyes on the next in line and motioning for him to come forward with a small flick of the wrist. 

A hand rested on Erik’s shoulder, massaging the skin in delicate swirls of short-clipped nails. Shaw, his Vizier, stood behind the throne, smiling.

\---

The line had dissipated by nightfall. Erik was distraught and frustrated. Data from every temple in the damned desert, none of it falsified, to Erik’s knowledge, and he’d found nothing. Every god had been appeased, some receiving almost double their usual gift count. He slumped in the seat, spreading his legs lazily and kneading the bridge of his nose. Shaw rounded the throne to stand before Erik, smiling, as he always did.

“Is something wrong, Pharaoh?” Shaw’s smile widened. His words were dripped in angry sarcasm.

Erik looked up, forming his mouth into a hard line, a sigh of breath his reply.

“You shouldn’t worry, Erik,” Shaw started, feeling comfortable enough to address Erik by name rather than title, “Everything will work itself out. In time.”

Shaw again rounded the throne, this time to stand behind Erik. He brought his hands to the Pharaoh’s shoulders, resisting the urge to dig his nails into Erik’s neck and flay the skin.

 

Erik was not a man who waited for things to right themselves.

\---

Erik stood in the doorway of an empty room, barren save for the four small, circular lamps illuminating its center.

Lines ran from the walls, etched deep in the flat stone, and met in the middle, curving to create a circle, several yards large. The lamps were arranged around the circle, one in the middle of each side, creating a ring of low, flickering light. Erik stepped into the room, letting the obfuscating drapes close behind him. He had in his arms, which were drawn to his chest to carry the load, a rectangular, woven box, five bands of metal, a small, golden orb with a tiny hatch, and a long, thick knife. The circle drew him forward and stiffly Erik followed, kneeling before it to set all but the knife down. He stood at full height again, taking a long breath and steeling himself.

The knife drew blood easily, splitting the skin of his forearm and staining itself. Erik made no cries of pain as he dug in deeper, the only indication of the searing burn his iron-grip on the handle. With difficulty, Erik released the knife. It clattered to the floor, banging against a band and settling with the tip hanging over the impression of the circle, blood dripping from its harsh edge.

He traced the edge of the circle with his steps, arm taut and seeping blood in a thick line. It caught in the etchings as it drizzled, splashing against the edges but never seeping over. The circle ran red when Erik met the fallen knife again.

Erik dropped to his knees laboriously, reality of the pain setting in. He took the small orb and laid it before him, opening the hatch to reveal a polished, golden interior. Sharpened nails at the edges of the laceration forced thick gobs of gore to rush down defined muscle and fill the orb. It would only have taken a small amount of blood to fill it to the brim, but Erik needed to be positive. It could spell death if there was a drop less than required.

Erik grunted, suddenly aware of his loud, harsh breathing in the silence of the chamber. He picked the orb up with his non-mutilated arm, nearly dropping it from the sticky slickness of the blood on metal, and shut the hatch. He lied it down again, close to the bands, and turned the box to face him.

The box was tied shut with a simple knot, but in his state, quickly loosing blood, what should have taken moments took minutes. Losing his patience, Erik snatched the knife from the floor and slashed open the box, only narrowly missing its contents. He howled as fresh pain shocked his body. Tensing his arm to slice the box was a childish mistake and Erik swore loudly as furry ears poked out.

A small cat, dainty and quiet, padded out and into the room. Erik snatched the cat and it hissed in protest, trying to scratch and bite. He slammed it down to the floor, dazing it, and drew the knife, still soaking with his blood. The cat hissed and mewled as Erik brought the blade to its underside. The incision was deep, a perfect line running down the creature, splitting and spilling hot entrails onto stone. The cat twitched, crying softly its howl of death. 

It died gutted at Erik’s knees, splashed with slaughter. 

Erik waited.

Gore drenched him, seeping into the staining linen of his kilt, cascading down his arm, and drying under fingernails. It was difficult to murder the sacred animal, but a necessary pain to save his empire. 

Minutes passed. 

Erik waited.

Nothing was happening, no sign from the gods or message in the blood. If Erik waited much longer, he would bleed out. Weak from exhaustion, he sank back to rest and perhaps welcome death. 

A great rumble emanated from the red circle. It shook Erik off balance, throwing him to the floor as the shaking increased. The ceiling cracked and thick stone crashed through, shattering and staining where it hit the etchings. Sand began to pour from the ceiling, above the circle, blanketing Erik in a thin layer of dust. He dragged himself from the circle as more and more sand spilled from the cracks in the palace roof. It drenched the floor, coming down in sheets as the rolling reverberation of the ceiling coming apart grew almost painfully loud. The interior of the circle was no longer visible through the shifting sands and Erik was thankful the ceiling had only collapsed within it. 

In a second, it was over.

The deep rumbling was cut off abruptly and the room descended back to quiet. Recovering from shock, Erik brought himself to his feet and made his way to the center of the room once more. Miraculously, the lamps had retained their light. They danced Erik’s shadow against the walls. 

He stopped in his tracks when he caught the brilliant eyes a man in the circle, kneeling before him, blood emptying from a thick cut down his body. The man was wheezing quietly, in pain, as his hands scrambled on his chest, trying to hold shut the deep gorge splitting him. 

Erik grinned for the first time in weeks.

He ran to the middle, stopping only briefly to snatch the orb and bands from his pile of trinkets, and tackled the man. He hissed, exposing sharp, feline teeth as Erik shoved him to the ground to straddle his hips. Erik set the orb down, out of the man’s reach, and grabbed a band. It was an inch wide, polished gold, and just long enough to fit around the neck of a slave, though it had no clasp to hold it shut around a captive’s neck.

Swiftly, Erik bent the flimsy metal enough to snap it around the man’s throat. On contact, it sizzled. The bands were ancient things, designed to bind man or god to the user’s will. It melded with flesh like a fiery brand on skin.

The screams didn’t cease until Erik had fixed the other four bands to him; one at each wrist and  
ankle. Voice ragged, the man beneath him gasped when Erik affixed the final band.

Erik took the orb from the floor in his hand, wiping still-wet blood from its surface. The man brought his hands up weakly, trying to scratch Erik with gold-dipped nails, in a pitiful attempt to stop him. Erik held the orb in his palm and shoved his fist in the man’s chest, through the split in his body. He arched his back, howling in a final cry of pain as Erik released the orb inside the man and forced his hand out, taking gore of the man’s innard’s with it.

Again, Erik was forced to wait. He wavered, flexing his thighs in an attempt to stay upright as the man breathed ragged and ran nails along the floor, dulling them until it was the tips of his fingers dragging across stone. The wound in his chest began to close, skin stitching itself together. The line sealed quickly, the only evidence of it ever existing was the smeared, drying blood coating his chest and a pitch black, half-moon mark where the orb had been forced into him. Erik quirked his lip in a half smile as his own wounds began to shut themselves, relieving the pain almost instantaneously. This was the confirmation Erik needed. 

Pain no longer racking his body, Erik stood and inspected his catch, the man still caught between Erik’s powerful legs. He was frail, pale and small compared to Erik. It was laughable that he had even tried to stop him, Erik thought as he nudged his captive with his foot. 

“Would you please stop that,” the man asked, his voice calm and collected despite the binding. He looked up at Erik with sad, but curious, blue eyes. Erik had enough courtesy to stop prodding at the man. Erik stepped away, leaving him alone in the circle of blood. 

From here, Erik could have a decent look at the man he’d binded to his will.

He was normal looking enough, with long brown hair that touched at his shoulders and a decent build. It wasn’t the man’s looks that caught his eye, though surely they would have had Erik seen him in the market or on the street. Protruding from the mess of hair atop his head were two, small, fuzzy cat ears. They flicked and twitched, taking in new surroundings. Erik raised an eyebrow and trailed his eyes lower, to the slender tail that peeked out through a hole in the linen, gold adorned kilt the man wore. 

The abnormal additions to his body confirmed Erik’s hopes; this was not a man, as Erik had been labeling him in his head. This was a god.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bastet's Son!Charles inspired by [this](http://tiny.cc/pzy9iw) wonderful art (you'll need a Pixiv account to see it).

A week into the drought people began to drop. 

It happened often, mostly during the afternoon, when the heat was strongest. People would hobble down a road, through the marketplace, or into the desert chasing hallucinations, and they would simply drop and not get up again. After three days, people stopped noticing. It became normal to see the bodies dragged away by the Pharaoh’s recently hired clean-up crews, or glimpse a rabid and starved dog gnawing at the sun-dried flesh of a burnt corpse.

No one knew the cause of the river’s disappearance, but everyone was sure they did. A hundred different suppositions echoed through the cities, all with one line of universal belief. The gods were angry, and this was their punishment. The normally blazing sun had become excruciatingly hot in the month before harvest season, causing all those aligned with the gods of the sun to spout theories on their gods anger magnifying the heat of the sun enough to consume the river and dry the riverbed.  
Despite the heat, the patrons of the river gods claimed foul on the sun worshippers, claiming that it was the river itself which decided to recede to nothing. 

The accusations and blame went in circles as more dropped dead by the day.

Egypt was rife with the stench of decay. 

\---

Charles breathed shallowly in the drying blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. A cat nuzzled its way through the thick drapes over the doorway, slipping through and padding to Charles’ side. 

Smiling, Charles set his hand on its lithe back and pet it. The cat purred and rubbed up against him, back arching and fur brushing against the god’s bare skin. Its off-white coat was a contrast to the blood. 

Erik frowned. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

“Are you done yet,” he demanded gruffly.

Charles turned to look at him, still petting the cat. Not quite used to his humanoid form, Charles was shaky as he stood. He brought the cat up with him and nuzzled into Charles’ chest until he began petting it again. 

“Done with what?” Charles asked as he closed the space between them slowly, learning to walk at age 5430.

“Done wasting my time,” Erik spat out. He reached forward and violently grabbed Charles by the arm, dragging him closer, casing the cat to hop from Charles’ arms and rush to the exit. As he dug his nails into the flesh of Charles’ arm, the band welded to his wrist constricted. It was a discomfort, playing on the edge of pain. A warning.

“I didn’t waste my blood to make small talk with you. I need you. To,” Erik glared harder at the god, hating the words coming from his mouth, “help me.” He gripped tighter, fully prepared to use violent force.

Charles raised an eyebrow, interested in the mortal’s request. “Well,” he started, placing his palm on the hand Erik was assaulting him with, “I would love to.”

“You-- what.”

“I said I would love to help you,” Charles applied a bit of pressure to Erik’s hand. He relented, bringing his arms back to cross across his chest.

“You’re not angry? 

Charles’ ears flicked with irritation. “Yes, Erik, I am very angry. But I understand you. I understand you’re frightened and I hate to see people suffer as much as you.”

“You don’t understand me,” Erik scoffed, pushing himself from the wall and shoving Charles to the side as he made his way to the door. He brought his hand up and beckoned Charles along.

Charles found himself forced to follow Erik, bands reacting to Erik’s will. He’d have been dragged had he not caught up.

“I understand you perfectly,” Charles smiled, sure of himself. “I know all about you.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Erik replied, not bothering to look back as he led Charles through the palace and to the throne room.

“I know about your mother.”

Erik froze, his hands fisting at his sides. To bring up Erik’s mother was enough for him to slam into Charles, grinding the side of his delicate face into the stone of garishly painted pillar, one of six that dotted the path to Erik’s throne. Fire erupted at Charles’ wrists, ankles, and neck as Erik heated the bands until they burned red hot. The smell of scalding flesh permeated the air. 

Erik twisted his hand in Charles’ hair, pulling him back and forcing his eyes on Erik.

“You don’t know anything about my mother,” he broke into a small sneer of a laugh, completely unable to believe the god’s arrogance. “The last man to speak of her was suffocated with sand.”

“It’s just my luck that I’m not a man then, isn’t it?” Charles managed to get out in as cheery a tone as possible, quickly going back to pinching his lip in his teeth as soon as the words were ground out. 

Fully expecting Erik to slam his forehead to the wall again, Charles braced himself. Erik only stared, still furious, but calming gradually. The cooling bands were like a measure of Erik’s fury. Erik released him with a frustrated sigh.

“I don’t care where you sleep, but don’t wander out of the palace. I don’t want the people seeing you yet,” Erik said, his back to Charles as he crossed the short distance to his throne. He reclaimed the familiar seat, seating himself rigidly and propping his elbow up on the arm of the chair. 

“Why not?” Charles asked, wincing. The wounds Erik had inflicted on him were healing, but not rapidly enough for Charles to ignore. His wrists and forehead ached and his lip quivered into a private smile as he thought of what a mess he’d be, had he been mortal. He gave the sealing cuts and brightening bruises another moment to right themselves before returning to Erik, standing before him like a subject in the Pharaoh’s court.

Erik smiled one of his rare, unpleasant smiles of knowing. 

“We’ll be addressing them soon. Together.”

Charles furrowed his brow at Erik, unsure how to feel about revealing himself to all of Egypt.

It was then that it dawned on him: Erik hadn’t told him what he needed help with. 

\---

Rumors spread like locusts through the cities. Eager ears flocked together in the marketplaces, desperate for a chance to hear of the supposed savior. News of a god on Earth, summoned by the almighty Pharaoh was the only subject of conversation. 

The desert buzzed to life again. Hope ran rampant. The long journeys to the secluded oases felt less like an everlasting burden and more like a temporary fix to a soon to be resolved problem. More people braved the sands, blood running hot with the fire of belief and water returned to the cities, if only for a short time. The precious liquid was packed for travel as thousands took to the trails, enduring the impossible heat and dangers of hidden serpents for a glimpse at the god rumored to be hidden within the palace walls. 

\---

“Have you found your stay pleasant, Charles?” Shaw asked as he led the god through the palace, hand pressing into his lower back. 

“Other than a few misunderstandings, yes. It’s been quite pleasant. Thank you,” Charles replied. He let the man lead him through the pillars and walls of encroaching stone, happy it was a hand at his back prodding him forward and not a burning at his wrists. 

Of all the men in the palace, Shaw had seemed the least surprised to see him. Erik had put on a violent show in the throne room and it had constricted court conversation to hushed whispers as the nobles were made frightened of their Pharaoh’s strength. The court remained abnormally reserved while Shaw carried on like Erik had mistreated a servant. 

Shaw led them to the back of the palace, more dimly lit and low-ceilinged than the rest of the place, and stopped Charles before a curtained doorway with two hands on his shoulders. He fingered the collar gently, not lingering long enough to warrant Charles’ disapproval, and glided to his front with a smile. He looked down on the god.

“Erik will want you radiating for his little presentation,” Shaw said, tapping his foot, eager to be on his way. 

Charles raised an eyebrow curiously. 

“How is it you address him as that? Surely he’d prefer his proper, god-given title,” he questioned.

_“Erik,”_ Shaw enunciated the name, proving the point of his superiority with tone, “Trusts me very much.”

Charles’ ears flicked in time with his tail. He dropped his eyebrows, opening his mouth to protest, “Wouldn’t you say i--”

“Disrespectful? No, not at all! Not if you have a sense of humor. Apparently, that’s a strictly mortal thing,” Shaw said, cutting off Charles and flashing a condescending smile full of venom and teeth.

Shaw pushed him less than gently past the curtains of the bathing room before the issue could be pressed further, scurrying off like a desert rat to conduct his machinations.

\---

Charles winced as he lowered himself into the stone bath. The water was cool, pleasantly so, but the unfamiliarity was unnerving. The texture of liquid against skin was an odd feeling for someone who had never even dreamed it existed. 

Stripped naked by the four servants and up to his neck in water, it was difficult for Charles to relax. Eight sets of hands roamed his body. One rubbed his feline ears gently, coaxing a delighted purr from him as an oily mixture was kneaded into the fur. Two sets scrubbed a thick oil onto his skin while another took his tail in hand, careful after Charles hissed his disapproval the first time the man took it less gently ,and rubbed in the same mixture from his ears. 

Four large vases surrounded the stone bath, bordered by incense to indicate a quiet respect for the god’s presence. One by one, the servants drained the ornate vases of water upon Charles’ unwilling body. They were careful to avoid his delicate ears, but with gallons of water splashing about it was impossible to avoid a few drops of water flinging themselves in the sensitive extremities. While the water dripped unchecked and uncomfortably in, Charles remained a perfect portrait of godhood. He sat with his back firmly straight and accepted the care of the servants without complaint, smiling, not down on them, but with them.

The bathing lasted over an hour, or at least long enough for the servants to marvel at how Charles’ skin resisted pruning. He was dried and again assaulted by a flurry of hands, applying a thinner, lighter oil to his skin. It had a radiating effect, Erik used it for his previous two addresses, and Charles gleamed in the light of the fires. 

He was clothed, given a finely woven kilt embroidered with light gold accents, and brought to a solid slab of stone in the corner of the room. A servant patted the slab, indicating he should sit. The distressed and apologetic looks of the servants were disconcerting, but still Charles sat, ears perked up and attentive. One of the servants, the youngest boy of the bunch, took a feline ear in hand.

Charles felt pointed pain at his ear and hissed, more from a knee-jerk reaction than actual ache. The constant apologies of the servants dulled the pain well enough, though Erik’s battering certainly built him a tolerance. His ears were pierced in two places, near the base of the appendages, and four shining earrings were affixed to the holes; two bands and two hoops. On his tail they slid three golden bands, each painted with accents of accompanying colors. 

They stood Charles in the middle of the room, placing him beneath the skylight for the best lighting in which to carefully paint his makeup. The sun winked off the earrings, the decorated bands of his tail, and the woven accents of the kilt.

The gold of his neck, ankles, and wrists remained dull and flat in the light.


End file.
